


Breaking the Mask

by Beckwritesalot



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Fanfiction, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27393232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckwritesalot/pseuds/Beckwritesalot
Summary: Season three had potential. This is my version if Lexa could have been around for the entire season. Taken against her will Clarke Griffin finds herself once more dragged into political intrigue and personal turmoil as the Commander struggles to keep her hold on the coalition. A familiar story that accepts everything as canon before the start of season three. There are many nods to canon season three as I did enjoy many of the story aspects. This is my first ever story so I will update depending on if anyone is interested in reading more.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 38
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hang on tight, my story takes off at lightning speed.

They have been walking for three days. Clarke has no idea where she is having gotten lost a mere six hours into day one and the grumbling in her stomach doesn’t help her concentration. Twisting her wrists Clarke’s brow creases as she painfully adjusts her tight restraints connected to the rope in Roan’s hand. Her back and feet ache and groan as she trails behind her towering capture. 

Feeling a particularly harsh twinge in her shoulder, Clarke hunches over. Stumbling to keep in pace, she breathes through the pain and clenched teeth. She can still hear the horrific pop her shoulder gave when he tackled her to the ground. Clarke has not tried running again. 

In her struggle, she accidentally pulls on her restraints catching Roan’s attention. Huffing in her direction he gives the rope a tug, “Quit lagging.” 

It takes all of Clarke’s strength to not cry out in pain. Her complete inability to handle even the smallest movement confirms her diagnosis of a dislocated shoulder. Changing her breathing to short quick breaths Clarke picks up her pace. 

The pair walk for the rest of the day until night falls and Roan finally calls it. Clarke nearly cries with joy as she comes to a feeble stop. As he has done the past two nights, Roan pulls her to a nearby tree and ties her around the waist to it. He makes camp just far enough away that Clarke is unable to feel any of the warmth from his fire and the cold night chill presses in on her beaten body. 

She watches her capture with diligent eyes as he pulls off his boots and warms his feet by the fire. Roan leans back on the leaf-covered forest floor and takes a long sip from his canteen. Clarke’s throat screams as she watches him savor the refreshing taste feeling sick to her stomach. She stares so intently Roan notices her gaze and for a moment she thinks he will torture her by taking another sip, but he instead rises to his feet. 

Kneeling before her Roan puts the lip of the canteen to her mouth and tilts it. Clarke gulps desperate for every drop she can get. Water spills over her cheeks as she chugs down a couple of mouthfulls before he eventually rips it away. 

“Don’t be greedy.” 

Gasping in relief Clarke lays her head back against the tree as he moves back to his fire. Gazing upward, she can just make out the beautiful starry sky hidden behind the canopy of dying leaves above. Knowing her capture likes to get an early start, Clarke closes her eyes and does her best to remember what it felt like to live within those very stars. 

\- 

When Clarke opens her eyes, she already knows she has slept for a long time. Snapping her head up she flinches at a fresh wave of pain from her shoulder. Ignoring it she finds the sun directly overhead, but Roan remains asleep beside his now extinguished fire. Confused, she waits for him to wake for hours and it is late afternoon when he finally rises. 

“You slept the whole day away.” Clarke accuses him to no response, “Daylight is better for traveling long distances.” She states thinking back to Earth Science. 

“It is,” He says as he ties his boots, “But we do not have far to go.” 

“What?” Clarke blurts aloud, her heart rate spiking. She doesn’t know how far she thought they would go but she wasn’t prepared to hear that by tomorrow morning, depending on who Roan is taking her to, Clarke quite possibly could be dead. Question after question races through her mind as he unties her from the tree and binds her hands together in a now familiar fashion. 

There was a time that the thought of her death being near would have delighted Clarke but this is three months too late. Panic floods her mind as she follows Roan through the dense trees, a prisoner on her way to execution. She still has no clue where she is but her chances are better roaming the woods alone than with whoever Roan will deliver her to. 

Making sure to keep exactly in pace with him she hopes he will relax enough for some sort of element of surprise. Scanning her surroundings for options Clarke notes the knife in his belt. The setting sun allows darkness to encroach on them making their thin shadows less prominent on the dry forest floor. Roan is more skilled at tracking and Clarke has firsthand experience from the night he took her with his ability to move through the forest silently in complete darkness 

Roan stops and picks up a large stick from the leaf-covered ground. He pulls a rag from his bag and wraps it carefully around the tip. He then dumps a clear liquid from a jar over it and the harsh smell of alcohol assaults Clarke’s nose. 

He ignites the torch and the light blinds her unadjusted eyes. Clarke averts her eyes as they regain their pace through the forest and her palms begin to sweat when she realizes that Roan isn’t worried about being seen. They come upon a downward slope and she takes her chances. 

Knowing she will only get one; she sprints full force at Roan’s back and before he can turn, she collides into him. Roan’s head snaps back into Clarke’s and they crash blindly down the hill. Clarke’s thigh slices open on a rock and blood falls into her eye as she comes to a gut-wrenching stop on her dislocated shoulder. 

Screaming, she drags herself to her feet, adrenaline pushing her through the blinding pain. Finding the torch a few yards behind her she sees Roan laying on his side next to it. Running to him she rips the knife from his belt just as he tries to sweep her legs from under her. 

Hopping over him, Clarke cuts her restraints as Roan chuckles. The tall man finds his feet with a soft stumble and Clarke is thrilled to see a gash on his temple dripping blood down his chin. He dabs his fingers on the back of his head and finds them too decorated scarlet red. 

“Not bad,” He states as he bends over and pulls a second knife from his boot, “Let's see how the great and powerful Wanheda does on one good arm and no food.” Roan raises his knife and lowers into a fighting stance, and Clarke’s stomach drops as she raises her own in her non-dominant hand. 

He runs at her and she ducks under his first attack spinning around just in time to jump back out of the reach of the second. He kicks and she drops under as his knife comes around but Clarke just barely blocks it, thankful it was on her good side. 

She pulls her knee up directly into Roan’s crotch, causing him to double over. He shouts and shoves her with his free hand the pair stumbles back and catches their breath. Despite the past three months of training Roan is more skilled than she is. Her only hope is that he will make a mistake. 

He runs at her again and the two dodge and weave with Clarke firmly on the defensive. She barely scrapes by most attacks taking so much damage she can no longer call her “good” side good. Seeing her first opening Clarke ducks under Roan's arm and slices her knife through his skin over the expanse of his ribs. He cries out in pain, but Clarke is too slow to recover and leaves herself open. Roan whips around, kicking Clarke in her bad arm and her scream rivals his. Both fall to the ground. 

Roan recovers first and jumps onto Clarke pinning her arm under his knee and prying the knife from her hand. Shouting in frustration Clarke tries to buck him off until he forces the blade of his knife against her throat. 

“Stop fighting.” He orders, pressing with enough force to draw a thin line of blood. 

Clarke thrashes harder and more wildly causing it to cut even deeper, “Get the fuck off me!” 

“Nau!” A woman shouts. (No!) 

His weight is lifted off Clarke’s stomach and she scurries away, gripping her throbbing shoulder. Watching with shock in her bones and tears in her eyes, she watches as Roan is thrown to the ground by a woman. A woman with long brown braids. 

“I ordered you to bring her to me unharmed!” Lexa screams down at him. All of the breath rushes from Clarke’s lungs in an instant as she takes in the Commander towering over the mountain of a man. Her face is clean, her shoulder guard and forehead pendant are also missing which does little to dampen her commanding presence. 

“It’s not as if she made that possible!” He shouts back raising his shirt to show her the fresh bloody wound hidden beneath. Turning her back on him Lexa walks to the torch. Stomping out the small fire it spread across the dry forest floor, she thrusts the lit branch into Roan's hands before making her way to Clarke. 

“Are you okay?” She asks kneeling beside her. Clarke’s head spins as she watches her with cold eyes and fire in her stomach. Three months. For three months she has reveled in her hatred for this woman. Lexa takes a tentative step closer, “Clarke?” 

Gathering all the blood and saliva in her mouth, Clarke spits into her face. The Commander bolts upright, her concern disappearing behind inscrutable features. Roan laughs as he stumbles to his feet. Lexa wipes her face with her sleeve as he saunters over tucking away his weapons. 

“Bilaik ai tel?” (Like I said?) 

“Shof op.” Lexa orders turning to face him. “This will not stand shada hainofa.” Clarke’s head snaps up as she catches Roan’s title. (Silence. Broken prince) 

“We had a deal that I deliver her to you and I held up my end.” Roan challenges the young Commander, “Now hold up yours.” 

“She doesn’t exactly have a great track record of doing that.” Clarke barely manages through a grunt doing her best to hide the tunneling pain tearing down her arm. 

Ignoring the jab, Lexa pulls a small scroll from her pocket and presents it to Roan. The towering man rips it open without care, his eyes searching the small parchment lit by the flickering torchlight. Clarke tries to squint through the darkness for any clue as to what it is when her head grows heavy and she notices a subtle dripping sound. 

Looking down she finds her pant leg drenched in deep red blood which falls drumming softly upon the leaves below. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Clarke misses the rest of Roan and Lexa’s exchange and when she pulls her eyes from the bloody sight, she finds his silhouette and torch fading into the trees. 

Darkness encases them as Lexa stands motionless facing away from her. Clarke wants with everything in her to be able to scream and fight. To finally let out all the rage she has bottled inside her and put to words all the things she never could have explained to Nova. The truths that are reserved for Lexa alone. 

The last thing she wants right now is to need her help, but Clarke doesn’t want to die anymore and she is starting to feel lightheaded. She is about to break the silence when the Commander beats her to it. 

“I have a camp a short walk from here,” Lexa informs her through the dark. 

“Good”, Clarke winces as she applies pressure to her leg smearing her hands in deep red blood, “because I’m not going to make it very far.” 

Lexa stiffens before finally turning to face Clarke and her eyes squint through the blanket of blinding darkness. More tentative this time, Lexa once again kneels before her and runs her hands over the slick surface of Clarke’s pants. 

“Jok.” Lexa whispers under her breath, reaching for Clarke’s left arm but she recoils scurrying back through the leaves. (Fuck) 

“No please,” Clarke begs, hating her shaky pained voice, “It’s dislocated.” Lexa nods and grabs the other arm and together they struggle to get her to her feet. 

“Lead the way Commander.” Clarke practically spits a second time and they begin shuffling through the trees. Clarke prays the camp will come into sight quickly as each passing second brings her closer and closer to passing out. 

Lexa carries most of her weight and with each step Clarke finds herself tightening her hold on the Commander's shoulders. She tries her best not to focus on Lexa’s strong warm body supporting her broken one as a fresh drop of blood falls into her eye. Whimpering softly, Clarke continues with it tightly shut. 

After what feels like an eternity, they reach a clearing with a small tent which pales in comparison to the tents Clarke knows the Commander stayed in during the planning for the attack on Mount Weather. Relief washes over her at the thought of sitting as they approach. Lexa leads Clarke to a nearby stump and carefully lowers her atop it. Clarke’s shoulders sag and sleep pulls at her mind, but she fights to stay awake knowing what could await her if she fails. 

“I have supplies,” Lexa calls over her shoulder as she runs to rummage through her tent. 

Clarke hides a gag as a wave of nausea rolls through her and Lexa makes her way back with various healing supplies in one arm and a lantern in the other. She deposits everything onto the leaves and grabs a piece of cloth and presses it to Clarke’s forehead. 

“Pressure.” She orders as she turns away to ignite the lantern. Clarke wipes her eye clean as light fills the air around them and she notices the blur in her vision. Fear grips Clarke's chest and exhaustion races down her spine as Clarke does her best to calm her breathing. 

Lexa pulls forward her leg and both of their eyes widen as they take in the trail of blood now leading from the top of her thigh down her leg and over her boot. Without warning the Commander grabs another cloth and presses down over the wound. 

“Fuck!” Crying out, she can’t help the tears that explode in her eyes, “Alcohol.” Clarke orders through clenched teeth. Lexa plucks the largest bottle she has from the grass. Popping the cork out, she moves to pour it over the fresh wound but Clarke snatches it away before she can. Throwing her head back Clarke gulps down as much as she can before Lexa rips it away. 

“Clarke,” She chastises as a pool of warmth fills Clarke’s stomach. The Commander motions to pour it once more but she jumps back. 

“Wait,” Clarke breathes, removing the bloody cloth from her forehead and shoving it into her mouth, “Now go.” she murmurs around her gag. 

Fierce burning rips Clarke to the bone as Lexa carefully pours down the expanse of her thigh. By the time she stops Clarke is sure she bit through the cloth. Pulling it free she takes a deep shaky breath. Clarke examines her leg and watches a fresh wave of blood flow elegantly over her alcohol-soaked pants. 

“Do you have anything for stitches?” She asks the Commander. 

“Yes,” She answers, watching Clarke carefully with unsure eyes. 

“Good. I need you to do it.” She immediately launches into an argument against the idea but Clarke shuts her down. “I can’t I will pass out. Now help me get my pants off.” Clarke attempts to bend over and untie her boots herself, but Lexa forces her to sit back. The Commander removes her shoes and sits back looking rather uncomfortable. 

Clarke ignores the fact that Lexa hesitates before pulling her knife from her belt. She watches the Commander adjust her grip on the smooth wooden handle and does her best not to think about the first time she saw her use it. 

“You attack her and you attack me.” 

An ember of hatred reignites in her heart at the irony and it almost makes Clarke push away Lexa’s hand, but she keeps herself in check. Watching with blurry eyes Clarke studies the Commander's face as she places the tip of her blade under her pant leg. 

Trying not to grimace, Clarke helps Lexa rip the material free and together they peel the rest of the mangled garment off her good leg. Lexa tosses the pants aside and Clarke feels bare before the Commander of the twelve clans in nothing but her boy shorts. 

“Drench the needle and string in the alcohol too,” Lexa does as she is told and Clarke begins lowering herself onto the ground. Lexa places the lantern on the stump and pauses, needle in hand staring down at Clarke’s open wound. Her hands are trembling and it takes all of Clarke’s strength not to empathize with her. 

“No matter what keep going.” Putting the rag back in her mouth Clarke lays back in the leaves and prepares for hell.


	2. Meadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was happily surprised to see that people are interested in reading more. This is a learning experience for me and I thank you all for the support. Enjoy!

The next time Clarke opens her eyes she is met with the piercing light of day seeping in through the walls of Lexa’s tent. She passed out late last night and she knows from the accompanying ache in her bones that she has been asleep for a while. Sitting up she finds that, thankfully, Lexa is not with her inside. 

Pushing aside thoughts of the Commander carrying her limp body, Clarke sits up and finds her once useless arm wrapped into a sling made of bandages. Shrugging carefully, she tests how tight it is and finds the pain is a fraction of what it was yesterday. 

Lexa must have set it while she was unconscious. If she is being honest, Clarke is pretty thrilled she didn’t have to experience that on top of everything else. She carefully removes the fur blankets covering her and finds her thigh encased in tight clean cloth. She meticulously removes the wrappings and her brow scrunches as she takes in the Frankenstein stitches glaring back at her. Her red swollen skin burns hot to the touch and she knows the scar it leaves behind will be gnarly. 

Filing away the part of her that hates this new mark, Clarke rewraps her leg and sighs heavily. Dragging herself to the entrance she pushes aside the tent’s cover and looks out at the meadow in daylight. Tall wild grass covers its expanse, matched in number only by the fall leaves trying to smother them. To the right Clarke finds the stump she sat on covered in dried blood. 

Lexa is nowhere to be found. Clarke closes her eyes and feels a deep ache in her jaw, sore after biting down on the rag for so long. Feeling her forehead, she traces the fresh scab stretching into her hairline and thinks back to the sight of Lexa in the dark. Lit up by Roan’s torchlight, her sharp features and piercing eyes dug deeper into Clarke’s chest than she cares to admit. 

For months she dreamed about what it would be like when she saw Lexa again. She has to admit she imagined more death threats and less rescuing. Pulling herself half out of the tent, Clarke lies back into the tall grass and breathes in the fresh forest air. 

Cold dew covering the blades of grass soak into Clarke’s shirt sending a chill sprinting down her spine. She tries to focus on the feeling and the sounds of the forest, allowing them to chase away her troubles. Clarke isn’t sure how long she lays there before she hears the softest crunch of leaves approaching. Just like that, her peace scatters like frightened birds. 

The steps halt a few feet away and Clarke peels open her eyes to find her gaze locked with Lexa’s. The Commander’s deep green eyes pierce her more harshly now in the light of day. In her hands, she holds a pile of folded clothes with a roll of bread balanced atop. 

“How do you feel?” She asks, tiptoeing around the things they have yet to say. Lexa stands awkwardly with her chin high as Clarke considers a smartass retort. 

“Better than I did,” Clarke responds flatly, deciding against arguing. For now. “Where did you go?” 

“We are not far from a small Trikru village.” The Commander answers before handing the pile to Clarke. “You should change. You need to stay warm.” 

Not waiting for a response Lexa turns and walks back to the stump. Squatting beside it, she begins gathering wood and twigs together into a small pit. Clarke is surprised at how little she paid attention to the direction she traveled with Roan considering she didn’t realize they were back in Trikru territory. 

A horse whines on the edge of the meadow catching her attention. Clarke finds two horses, one brown and one white, tied to different low hanging branches across the way. The brown one prods the ground with her hoof and huffs out a heavy breath as she adjusts her footing. Clarke has always loved horses. 

Retreating into the tent, she examines the pile of clothes. Thankfully the pants are loose and baggy like sweatpants, so as not to irritate her thigh. Underneath she also finds a fresh shirt, jacket, and bandages. Working slowly, she rewraps her wound with care then pulls the pants on and flinches as even the softest amount of pressure aggravates the butchered skin beneath. 

Reaching as far over her shoulder as she can, Clarke tries and fails multiple times to grasp the tie on her sling. Yielding, she gathers her voice and leans as close to the exit as possible. Dreading once more requiring her help, Clarke hesitates when she hears the clicking of flint and steel as Lexa attempts to ignite a fire. 

“I need your help,” Clarke calls. 

The sound stops immediately, and Clarke waits so long for a response she almost considers the Commander didn’t hear her. 

“I can’t untie the sling.” She clarifies, hoping nothing more needs to be said. 

After another moment of silence, Lexa’s footsteps approach the tent but come to a halt just outside the entrance. Clarke’s brow furrows as she waits, but Lexa remains unmoving until Clarke herself pulls aside the makeshift cloth entrance. 

Unable to maneuver well, she waits awkwardly while Lexa squeezes in behind her. Clarke grows painfully aware of just how small this tent is. Once settled the Commander's precise fingers begin to untie the knot with ease. Clarke winces when she takes on the full weight of her arm. Reaching over Clarke’s wounded shoulder, Lexa’s hair brushes her cheek as she pulls the cloth free. 

With one final tickle across her neck, Lexa and her hair retreat to the corner of the tent. Clarke is halfway through pulling her shirt off when she realizes she isn’t wearing a bra and freezes in place. Due to Roan’s decision to attack at night Clarke has been without a bra for days, a fact that hadn’t seriously crossed her mind until this very moment. 

Conceding that there is nothing she can do about it now; Clarke pulls her damp shirt over her delicate shoulder and Lexa thankfully moves even further away. With the cold winter air dancing over her bare skin, Clarke fumbles with the new shirt. With every pained second her wounds slow her progress Clarke’s cheeks deepen their scarlet tint. 

Finally, she succeeds in pulling her sore arm through and waits for Lexa to retie her, but the Commander doesn’t move. After several silent moments, Clarke turns to find Lexa stiff, her face averted and eyes pinned to the opposite wall like her life depends on it. 

Memories of just before the attack of Mount Weather force their way into Clarke's mind. As Lexa occupies her gaze, she can't help but see the same hidden caring nature in her she did all those months ago. The Commander glances in her direction and Clarke nearly chokes as their eyes meet. She spins back around. 

“You can put it back on.” She sputters, frustrated with the squeaky sound of her voice as she gathers herself. 

Lexa takes care while rewrapping her arm and Clarke soon feels the stress taken off her shoulder once again. The Commander reties the final tie, then leaves without a word. Pulling the jacket on her good arm and over her pained shoulder, Clarke lets the empty sleeve dangle. She then finds her boots, washed clean of the blood that decorated them last night, and pulls them on with a degree of difficulty. 

Grabbing the bread, she drags herself to the entrance and pokes her head out once more. Searching the area around the tent, Clarke finds a large stick nearby and digs its end into the ground as she pulls herself upright. Lexa sits by the stump nursing the smoking embers before her into a small fire. 

Leaning heavily on the branch, she limps to the stump and lowers herself with care. The fire grows as Lexa feeds it more wood, and Clarke begins to feel the warmth envelope her feet. She digs into the bread and is surprised to find that with each bite her appetite grows. 

This single loaf is the first thing she has had to eat in over three days. Lexa finishes with the fire and sits atop the grass crisscross as Clarke eats. She can hardly believe this is the same woman who stood before her covered in war paint and blood three months ago. 

Clarke saw nothing but red as she watched the Commander turn her back on her. Now, in the dim light that breaks through the tired trees, she looks younger. Unlike Clarke’s own disheveled beaten body Lexa is clean. Her hair while marginally unkempt, likely from sleeping on the hard forest floor, is shining and free of dirt and blood. 

The bread turns sour in Clarke’s mouth as she sees just how well things have been going for the great Commander of the twelve clans. 

“Why am I here?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa holds her hands up to the fire, rubbing them together before its warmth, “You are a wanted woman Clarke. I had to ensure you didn’t fall into the ice queen’s hands.” 

“So, you hired Roan to take me against my will?” She retorts, causing Lexa to sigh before leaning back in the grass. Her eyes are genuine when she finally speaks. 

“He wasn’t supposed to hurt you.” 

“Yeah, well I'm kind of used to it by now.” She bites back waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come. Lexa maintains her seamless cool composure. It infuriates Clarke. “So now - after everything you did - now you deem me worthy of being saved? Or, more likely, was it that if Nia did manage to capture me, she would take my power and use it to challenge your rule over the coalition?” 

“ _Worth_ has nothing to do with it.” Lexa counters ignoring the second half. Sitting up more fully, she pins Clarke with a level gaze, “I made the best decision I could for my people. As a leader, you should understand.” 

“I am not a _leader_ ,” Clarke spits the title like an insult, “I walked away from that. And even if I hadn’t, I never would have made the decision you did.” 

“You can't walk away from who you are Clarke.” 

“Actually, I can.” Her eyes fixate on Lexa’s strong hands as she reaches for another log, “ _You_ can’t.” 

Lexa stiffens and silence fills the air between them. Clarke has so much she needs to say, words that have been clawing at her insides for months wanting so desperately to be freed, but now that she has her chance to finally say them, she can’t find a way through the anger. 

She can’t find a way because just minutes ago in the tent her stomach was swirling with butterflies because of Lexa and that infuriates her more than anything else. Frustrated with herself, Clarke violently rips a large bite from the bread and chews aggressively. Lexa remains silent before the fire. Accepting that the Commander will not be responding, Clarke drops the topic. 

“Why did you have him bring me _here_?” She asks taking in the clearing once more. Clarke notes the scattered wildflowers surrounding them and silently acknowledges that when she first got to the ground, she might have thought this place was beautiful. So much has changed. 

“The ice queen has a long reach,” Lexa answers, “I couldn’t risk Roan being intercepted entering Polis.” 

Her response is calm and direct. The Commander distances herself from her emotions and Clarke hates the effect it has on her, the effect _she_ has on her. Watching Lexa sit before her completely undisturbed pulls at a darkness Clarke keeps buried deep and locked away inside her. 

“How much longer can we stay here?” She asks through clenched teeth, trying the quell the chaos of emotions inside her chest. 

“My hope was to have already left,” Lexa informs her, and she doesn’t miss her deep green eyes falling to Clarke's leg and the wound that delayed them, “How do you feel?” 

Prickling at the inquiry, Clarke tenses her thigh to test how sensitive it is. She bites off a gasp as her skin tightens, pulling the stitches painfully. “Not great.” 

“Polis is half a day’s ride from here, but we should leave early tomorrow to make up for that leg.” The Commander informs her as Clarke watches her continue to fiddle with the fire. If she didn’t know any better, she might think the Commander was trying to keep her hands busy. Good thing Clarke knows better. 

“Why are you taking me to Polis?” She questions as she considers what this means for her. Three months ago, Clarke walked away from her duties and the people that relied on her. Her arrival at Polis would not go unnoticed and would undoubtedly pull her back into the political fold. 

A pit forms in her stomach as she suddenly loses her appetite at the thought of seeing her mom, Kane, Bellamy, Octavia, and the dozens of others she stranded when she walked into the woods all those months ago. An icy fist wraps around Clarke’s throat. It takes all of her concentration to hide her labored breathing as she struggles to get air into her lungs. 

Taking one more shallow, slow breath, Clarke raises her eyes to the Commander making sure she will have time to train her face if Lexa looks her way. Her heart pounds and before she can help it, she lets out a short huff of air just loud enough to catch Lexa's attention. 

Lexa turns and Clarke presses her thumb into her stitches willing the pain to chase away all other feeling from her mind. Better the Commander thinks she is hurting than on the verge of a panic attack. Clarke’s face contorts of its own accord, covering up any signs of her struggle to maintain control. Grunting through gritted teeth, Clarke blinks tears from her eyes. When she looks back to Lexa, she is relieved to find nothing in her gaze to indicate she caught on. 

“In Polis my word is law,” Lexa says, returning her gaze to the fire. “If I am to keep you safe my best chance will be within its borders.” 

“Your ‘best chance’?” Clarke quotes, the choice of words piquing her interest and momentarily distracting her from her fears, “Nia really is a threat to you.” 

Lexa’s jaw locks and Clarke instantly knows she hit a nerve. Satisfied, she presses further. 

“And no doubt if she doesn’t follow your commands neither does the entirety of Azgeda.” A thrill goes through her as more of the Commander’s mask cracks. Punishing herself for forgetting about her hatred of Lexa, she presses harder, ignoring the ache that forms in her stomach as she does so. “Is it only them or are there other clans who don’t believe in you anymore?” 

“Enough.” Lexa orders, her eyes flaring with hot fire. Sitting back, Clarke takes in the change in Lexa’s body language. Just moments ago, she appeared at peace, but now her relaxed composure has been entirely chased away by daring raging eyes and rolled proud shoulders. The posture of a leader who demands respect. 

“Why?” Clarke continues as Lexa stares her down, “You are scrambling to make up for the power I took from you at Mount Weather and it shows. You’re desperate.” 

Not answering, the Commander’s jaw juts to the side ever so slightly; it’s a tell Clarke picked up on during the siege of Mount Weather. Despite her set expression, Clarke knows Lexa is struggling to keep it. She knows because she has seen what Lexa looks like when she lets go of her defenses. 

_“Not everyone. Not you.”_

Unlike then Lexa doesn’t release her hold on herself. With each second Clarke can see the Commander regaining her grip on the beautifully wild emotions that she denies exist. Suddenly the blonde’s heartaches as she watches Lexa disappear behind the Commander of the twelve clans. Exasperated, Clarke pulls herself up by her branch and begins limping to the tent pointedly not looking back. 

She struggles but she eventually pulls her wounded leg through the entrance and lays back into the furs cushioning the rigid dirt beneath. Once settled Clarke feels the frustration and exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours press her back harder into the earth. Her eyelids grow heavy and sleep threatens to take her as her mind races with thoughts of Leksa Kom Trikru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to update every 7-10 days, but we will see how this goes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start with thank you for your patience. I recently had a loss in the family which obviously takes priority. The chapter I originally planned to upload was twice this length hence the abrupt ending. I figured half a chapter was better than no chapter. I will continue to update as soon as possible.

Clarke hurtles through the dense brush, crying out as she collides with a thick tangle of branches. Thorns pierce her arms and chest but her momentum forces her through, her skin ripping apart as she stumbles forward face-first into a tree root. 

Her teeth tear open her lip on impact. Clarke writhes as fresh blood and dirt flood her mouth and pours over her bottom lip. The thorns twist, tightening until she cannot move without shredding her skin. Completely restrained, blood stains her clothes as each fresh cut blinds her with unending torment. 

Unable to do anything else, Clarke takes as deep a breath as she can manage and her voice tears from her body in an ear shattering scream that wakes the trees around her. Struggling against the thorns does more harm than good, but she can’t help herself. 

“Clarke!” 

A thick branch wraps around her throat and tightens. Choking, she weeps as the thorns imbed themselves in her. Blood pours from her jugular like water from a broken pipe. Footsteps approach and Clarke flicks her eyes to the side to find the daunting face of Finn Collins. 

She is almost relieved but he remains unmoving as he stares down at her. His towering figure looms over her as she begs him to help her, but he remains frozen. An eerie smile spreads across his face as he watches with dead eyes. Terrified she struggles harder. 

“Wake up!” 

Strong hands grip Clarke’s arms as she is shaken into consciousness. Pitch black envelopes her and she can’t hear anything over the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. Disoriented and blind, the commander of death does the only thing she can think to do. 

Grabbing the hand on her arm, Clarke rips it free. Pulling her assailant forward and off balance, Clarke twists their hand out and around. The assailant’s shoulder is forced down as their muscles tighten with resistance. Clarke is a second away from snapping their wrist. 

“Clarke, stop!” Freezing, her blood runs cold as she recognizes the voice. Clarke squints through the darkness to see the entrance of her tent open. The minuscule light from the fire outside illuminates the outline of a woman and it all comes crashing back. She drops the Commander’s hand as if it had burned her, scurrying across the tent to the far corner. 

“Get out.” She wheezes through trembling lips but Lexa doesn’t move. Tears streak down Clarke’s cheeks, and she covers her ears. She runs her tongue over the inside of her bottom lip, double checking that the dream was in fact only a dream. Finn’s eyes are burned into Clarke’s mind and for a split second, she almost convinces herself she sees them watching her in the darkness. When Lexa remains unmoving, she lashes out, “Leave!” 

Clarke can’t see her face in the dark, but she knows from her hesitation that Lexa heard her scream, heard her cry. Her stomach writhes as she hopes screaming is all that she did. Nova helped calm her down after her nightmares. It is because of her Clarke knows she nearly always talks during them. 

Clarke fondly remembers the late nights Nova stayed up with her when she was too afraid to go back to sleep. Sorrow peels away her layers as Clarke momentarily surrenders her resolve and buries her face into a pile of furs. Releasing the tension in her chest she sobs as quietly as she can. Just when she thought she might actually be able to find peace the world took it away. Like always. 

Clarke cries until she can’t anymore and rolls onto her side. The fur, damp with her tears, presses wet against her cheek as she lays wallowing in her grief. Staring into the darkness of her tent, Clarke eventually feels sleep pulling at her brain again but she fights it. 

Not daring to risk another nightmare, she keeps herself awake for the rest of the night. Her mind slows as her breathing calms and she runs out of tears to shed. After hours of silence, the soft chirping of birds greeting the rising sun seeps into the tent. She rolls her eyes, despises their cheerful delight of a new day which seems to only serve as a reminder that she is neither of those things. 

Pulling herself upright, Clarke rubs her dry swollen eyes. She knows there is nothing she can do to hide them from Lexa, so she doesn’t bother trying before dragging herself out of the tent. She tests her leg. Though it is still weeks from being fully healed, Clarke is grateful that the swelling has gone down. 

Lexa is already up and packing supplies into the white horse's saddle as Clarke approaches the smoldering remains of last night's fire. Once again resting atop the stump, Clarke watches Lexa work. It doesn’t take long for her to notice Lexa is avoiding her gaze. Unbothered, or so she'd like to think, Clarke waits patiently for her to pack the tent. 

Once finished, the Commander frees the reins of the brown horse and walks it to her. Pulling herself upright, Clarke hops on one leg as she takes in the enormous beast. Lexa makes her way around the majestic animal, stopping briefly to whisper to it in Trigedasleng. 

“This is Spirit.” Lexa introduces whilst running her hand along its snout. Turning she then points to the white companion still linked to the tree. “And that is Mara.” Clarke can’t help the smile that curls her lips but it’s chased away when she notes the daunting height of the stirrup. 

“I don’t think this is going to work.” Clarke is certain she can’t raise her wounded leg that high, nor will it be able to handle her full weight long enough to lift the good one. 

“Stand on the stump.” Lexa orders as she pulls herself onto Spirit with ease. Maneuvering her, Lexa gets the majestic horse as close to Clarke as possible before offering her hand. With an extra foot of height, Clarke takes it, focusing a moment too long on the feel of Lexa's calloused hands. 

The hands of a warrior. 

With Lexa helping take her weight, Clarke raises her good leg. Instantly pain shoots down the appendage. Clarke pulls on Lexa’s hand with everything in her desperate to get herself up. She gets her foot in the stirrup and tears prickle in her eyes as she realizes she can’t make it all the way over in one go. Grunting in pain, her foot twists awkwardly out as she falls back into Lexa. 

Clarke’s shoulder smashes into her chest and they both nearly topple over. It is entirely Lexa who saves them. Securing Clarke with her free hand the Commander pulls the reins to settle an understandably exasperated Spirit. Letting out a frustrated groan, Clarke reaches for her wound and is able to feel each of her heartbeats pumping through the tangle of healing tissue. 

Eyes shut tight, she takes deep breaths waiting for the tears to pass. As she exhales in slow steady rhythm, she gradually becomes aware of the feeling of Lexa’s strong arms wrapped around her. Clarke’s body is flush against the front of Lexa’s. Resting the side of her head on Lexa’s shoulder, she doesn’t overthink their closeness as she prepares herself. 

Pulling her knee to her chest, she turns to face forward. Lexa moves to make room for Clarke on the front of the saddle. Once over, her leg drops and Clarke’s head slumps forward. The Commander waits patiently with her arms over Clarke’s hunched shoulders. With the reins in hand, Lexa acts as safety rails as Clarke gathers herself. 

As the final wave of pain passes Clarke sits taller. Breathing in deep, she wipes a stray tear from her eye. “Sorry.” 

A curt short nod is all the Commander offers in recognition of the apology. In a split second, Lexa glides off the back of Spirit with an ease that irks Clarke. Adjusting her grip on the reins, she pretends not to watch as Lexa pulls herself into her own saddle. Lexa maneuvers Mara with expertise, leading her across the clearing and Clarke recites all of the rules of riding Nova drilled into her before nudging Spirit with her foot. 

Following Lexa’s lead, the pair begins their slow trek. As they travel it becomes very clear to Clarke that Lexa is an equine savant. The Commander rides with experience, encouraging Mara in Trigedasleng through brush and over logs with ease. Clarke on the other hand struggles. 

Each jolting step of Spirit sends a shock wave of pain through Clarke’s leg and as the hours tack on, the color drains from her face. Sweat settles on her brow, and the sun breaking through the trees is nearly blinding. Eventually, she can’t focus on anything spare the aching in her leg so she tries to distract herself. 

“How old were you the first time you rode a horse?” Clarke asks. After hours of silence, Lexa looks thrown by the sudden attempt at light conversation. 

The Commander eyes her curiously before calling back. “Two.” 

Clarke’s eyebrows arch toward her hairline. “Wow.” 

“Did you know of horses before you landed?” Lexa asks in return. Pulling her reins, she slows Mara so that she is in step with Spirit. 

“Yes, we had old books from before the bombs with photos.” Clarke thinks back to Earth Science on the Ark. She would stare at the pictures for hours drawing inspiration from a world she never thought she’d see. Clarke grows morose, the memory bitter in her mouth. She takes her surroundings, the leaves covering the ground, the wind blowing through the trees. It should all be more, mean more. It doesn’t. 

“Are our horses the same as they were before?” 

Clarke’s brow furrows as she remembers the two-headed horse she and Lincoln traveled on many months before. “Not exactly.” 

Lexa cocks her head to the side at Clarke’s change in demeanor, but doesn’t press any further. Refocusing on their travels Clarke keeps her eyes down, dead set on ignoring the beauty around her. The soft crunch of leaves under hoof are disrupted as Spirit steps heavily down a hill. Clarke gasps in pain and shifts her weight. Doing her best to muddle through the stabbing pain, she wipes the sweat from her eyes. 

“Clarke,” Lexa calls, her worried tone grabbing Clarke’s attention, “Look.” 

Following Lexa’s gaze to Clarke’s own leg, she finds a fresh circle of blood staining her new pants above her stitches. “Shit,” she mumbles leaning heavily on her good leg. “I’m fine,” Clarke says unconvincingly. 

“No, we will stop,” Lexa orders already scanning their surroundings for a place to camp. Clarke rolls her eyes as the Commander leads her off the beaten path. With Lexa atop Mara beside her, the pair struggle to get Clarke comfortably back on solid ground. 

Within what feels like minutes, Lexa has her seated against a nearby tree with water and a warm fire. While she rests by the flames, Lexa arms herself with a bow and arrow. She tells Clarke to stay put, disappearing into the foliage. She returns fifteen minutes later with a rabbit hung over her shoulder. 

“We have made good time,” Lexa assures her as she turns the fresh kill over the fire. “We should make it into the city limits before nightfall.” 

Nodding, Clarke half listens as she examines her wound. Two pulled stitches. Reaching into the medical pouch Lexa provided her with, Clarke presses fresh gauze over her thigh and starts wrapping it tightly with clean bandages. As she works, she begins to smell the cooking rabbit and her stomach growls loudly. 

Lexa smirks and Clarke pretends not to notice. Discreetly grabbing the alcohol from the medical supplies, she pulls the cork free. Raising it to her nose, Clarke recoils at the harsh familiar smell. She brings it to her lips and takes a long, deep drink, savoring the burn as it trails down her throat and settles in her gut. Putting away the other medical supplies, Clarke keeps the bottle on hand as Lexa pulls the fresh meat from the fire. 

The Commander cuts each of them a leg and they both immediately dig in. Throughout the meal, Clarke keeps returning to the bottle and before too long her insides are swimming. Sucking the last bone clean, Clarke tosses it aside and licks her fingers sloppily. Kicking her good leg out, she leans back against a tree trunk and takes another drink. 

“Alcohol dulls the senses, Clarke.” Lexa informs her with a calm clear voice. 

“I have many senses that need dulling, Lexa.” Clarke quips before offering the bottle. The Commander declines with the shake of her head and rises to her feet. 

“We must continue.” Kicking dirt over the fire, Lexa extinguishes it before picking up the medical bag and securing it to Spirits saddle. Offering her hand, Lexa waits for Clarke to finish a final rushed swig before taking it. Once upright she hops on her good leg and adjusts her arm over Lexa’s shoulders. With another ten minutes of work, they succeed once more in pulling Clarke onto Spirit, though the exertion of the task does little to help her state. 

Sticking the bottle into her sling, Clarke rides with one hand behind the Commander in continued silence. The sloshing in Clarke’s stomach does volumes in dulling what would have been sharp pain in her leg otherwise. 

Hours pass slowly and they eventually come across a dirt road, the first one Clarke has seen in weeks. Following it Clarke notices the sun hanging low in the sky and curiosity flutters in her warm stomach. She keeps her eyes ahead, looking for any signs of what could be Polis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be kind. You never know what someone is going through.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I hope to update more frequently. Until then, enjoy

Ducking under a low hanging branch, Clarke shivers when drops of water fall over her head. Brushing them from her face, she notices Lexa pulling on the large red sash hanging from her shoulder guard. With practiced hands, the Commander folds it and uses it to cover her hair like a makeshift hood. 

Clarke watches curiously as Lexa turns her attention back to the road. In the soft light of the setting sun, Clarke openly studies the Commander. The last time she saw Lexa on Mount Weather she was war torn and covered in the blood of her enemies. A sight that would have been breathtaking even if Clarke hadn’t shared a kiss with her only hours before. 

She wears the same armor she wore back then except for the lighter gray undershirt that is only just visible through the numerous straps and buckles encasing the Commander’s torso. Following the edge of one of said buckles, Clarke’s eyes trail the expanse of Lexa’s muscular back. 

Noting the various signs of wear and tear throughout the garment, Clarke wonders if the cloak belongs to Lexa, or if the wardrobe was passed down to her upon her ascension. Trying to remember the scattered times Nova mentioned the sacred grounder tradition, Clarke finds her mind swarmed with thoughts of Lexa as a child. 

It is hard to imagine. 

And now that she thinks about it, Clarke doesn’t actually know how old Lexa is. The realization throws her as she stares at the back of the Commander, racking her brain for information that isn’t there. Nova said Lexa was sixteen when she became Commander, but Clarke doesn’t know how long she has been leading her people. 

Lexa’s youth and beauty are undeniable, and if she was only taking those things into consideration Clarke would guess Lexa is no older than twenty. However, Clarke has seen Lexa at her worst. On Mount Weather, the vulnerable girl she kissed in the tent was consumed, hidden away behind a powerful ruthless leader. That night Lexa looked older, much older.

Pushing aside her curiosity, Clarke focuses on the road ahead. The soft flickering of firelight appears over the hill before them and Clarke’s stomach flutters with anticipation. Rising in her saddle, Clarke’s eyes devour the darkness before her, hungry for more. As they approach, a checkpoint of sorts comes into view. Five armed guards stand at attention around a roaring fire, their eyes trained on Lexa and Clarke as they approach. Everything comes into focus as they draw near and Clarke is disappointed when she sees no other signs of people or buildings. 

Lit by the firelight in the drizzling evening, the man closest to them steps forward, _“Hod op!”_ He calls as they approach. Lexa doesn’t slow, and the man squints through the darkness. His face falls as they enter the light. _“Heda.”_ He drops his head into a deep bow, and his fellow guards follow suit with wide eyes. (Stop! Commander.) 

Lexa doesn’t even glance their way as she passes, Clarke following close behind. The guards stare at her with strange looks but don’t speak as she proceeds down the road after Lexa. Keeping her eyes forward she does her best to keep her head low until they are out of their line of sight. 

They continue through the sprinkling evening and just when Clarke is sure they will never reach the city, the first of many buildings appears. As they approach Clarke finds that they are spread out and sparsely populated at this hour, but that changes the deeper into the city they get. Grounders nudge each other, pointing to their Commander as she passes. Eventually, the streets are lined with buildings separated only by thin alleys. From those alleys, even more grounders emerge, curious to see what all the whispering is about. 

Wishing she too had a hood, Clarke trots silently beside the Commander as the small crowd lining the street grows. However, she quickly learns Lexa is all the distraction she needs. The residents of Polis watch mesmerized, as if in a trance as Lexa rides with her eyes dead ahead. Holding her head tall, she draws in their attention effortlessly like moths to a flame. Clarke must admit that she finds her eyes drifting toward the Commander of the twelve clans as well. 

Feeling a surprising spark of anger in her chest, Clarke comes to realize a part of her wonders what kind of respect they would show her if they knew that she was Wanheda. Suddenly Clarke’s brow creases and she completely stops paying attention to those around her as shame eats at her insides. 

What kind of person longs for respect for genocide? 

Clarke rides in a blur, losing track of how many buildings they pass or turns they take. She is consumed as she sees the faces of the children she murdered. Twenty-six. That is the number of dead children Clarke is responsible for. Once more the title of Wanheda wraps around her throat with an iron grip. They were innocent. She could have found another way. _Should_ have found another way. 

Clarke wonders what their names were. Three hundred and eighty-one people died that day. Clarke clenches her hand into a fist around the reins, waiting for this agonizing pain to pass. For the memories of their bodies to pass. She waits so long she doesn’t notice that they have stopped. 

“Clarke?” Jumping, her face contorts as she pulls on her stitches once more. Hissing, Clarke whips around and finds Lexa dismounted beside her. Curious green eyes stare up at her, a small smile working its way across her full lips. “You have not said anything.” 

She prods, nodding over her shoulder. Following her direction, Clarke’s mouth falls open as she gapes at the enormous building behind the Commander. With a circular base, the worn stone building towers into the clouds. Craning her head back so far that the fresh cut over her neck threatens to split, Clarke searches in vain for the top. 

“Holy shit.” She mumbles to herself, running through the millions of reasons such a structure should not have survived the bombs, and yet here it stands defiantly. Hearing the Commander huff out a short laugh Clarke finds Lexa's gaze on her, watching as she takes in what Clarke would consider the eighth world wonder. 

“I thought you would enjoy the sight.” She states simply before motioning for Clarke to dismount. Pulling her good leg over, Clarke faces Lexa head on. The Commander places her hands on both of Clarke’s hips and practically lifts all of her weight off the saddle. Lexa quickly drops her to the ground, forcing Clarke to brace against the Commander’s shoulders to avoid coming even closer. 

After placing her feet securely on the ground Lexa straightens, her face mere inches from Clarke’s. Her breath catches and Clarke’s defenses rise to the challenge as she waits for Lexa to move with cold eyes. Lexa retreats respectfully giving her room once more and Clarke exhales a sigh of relief. She ignores the remaining flush in her own cheeks, blaming it on the cold. 

Falling in line silently behind the Commander, Clarke takes in the large wooden arched double doors and the three armed guards at attention on either side of it. The two closest men grab ahold of the metal door rings and pull open the dark wood, which lets out a low groan. Sweeping into the candle lit foyer, Lexa leads Clarke past the continuous onslaught of locked gazes following them. 

As they approach the far wall of the grand entrance, Clarke notices a square sliding door. As if aware of the Commander approaching, the doors open the second Lexa plants herself before them. Following her into the small room revealed, Clarke swallows a lump in her throat. She examines the run down space and her mouth goes dry. 

This is the only elevator Clarke has seen on the ground and after up close experience of what grounders think “technology” is, she doesn’t have a great feeling in her stomach. The tan doors close and the ground lurches beneath Clarke’s feet. Fleeing to the nearest corner she presses her back into the shuddering wall. 

“You need not worry.” Lexa reassures her with a small grin as Clarke wipes her clammy palms on her pants, careful to avoid her injury. 

“How many floors?” She manages, trying to repress thoughts of the cable snapping. 

“All of them.” 

Dropping her shoulders, Clarke shakes her head bitterly, “Of course. Only the penthouse for her highness.” Clarke is unsure if the reference goes over her head, but from the harsh silence that settles over the elevator, she is fairly certain Lexa got the message. 

After what feels like an hour the thudding and groaning of their tiny deathtrap slows and beside her Lexa lowers her shoulders. In the corner of her eye, Clarke watches her clench and unclench her jaw and wonders what they are about to walk into. The doors open, and the Commander exits the elevator with speed and precision. Close on her heels and eager to escape the claustrophobic room Clarke finds herself in a long hall with closed doors at the far end. 

Guards on either side pull them open for Lexa as Clarke chases after. Her curiosity nags at her to take in every extravagant torch and candle fixture along the way, but she keeps her focus. She follows Lexa through the entrance and her steps falter. Clarke comes to a halt at the base of an enormous throne built of dozens of stag horns. 

A small set of steps elevate the demanding chair above the rest of the room. To her left Clarke sees an older bald man and Indra kom trikru huddled over a round wooden table. Both of them stare dumbfounded as Lexa climbs the steps to her throne. 

“Heda.” The man whispers as he rushes to Clarke’s side, skidding to a stop in front of Lexa, “Where have you been?” 

“Eliminating a threat,” Lexa responds, her voice which was soft in the elevator is now apathetic and rough. 

“Clarke Griffin?” Indra questions and Clarke turns to face her. She nods awkwardly at the Trikru warrior who examines her with an air of caution. 

_“Wanheda?”_ The bald man looks as if the name tastes bitter in his mouth, and under his scrutinizing gaze, Clarke is suddenly aware of her pathetic appearance, _“Du-de laik daun? Em-de laik baga!”_ (She is the one? She is the enemy!) 

“Titus, Clarke is a guest here in Polis.” Lexa corrects, a demanding edge in her voice, “A welcome one.” 

_“Dison laik yu strat?”_ He asks aggressively stepping closer, _“Gouva yu klin.”_ (This is your plan? Explain yourself.) 

Clarke’s interest peaks, but she does her best to train her face. From the way Titus is speaking she is sure he assumes she doesn’t understand Trigedasleng, and she wants to keep it that way. In the three months she had, Nova taught Clarke a surprising amount by practically beating the language into her. Every time she made a mistake the stocky woman punished her for it that night during training. 

_“This is important Griffin. Your hair is enough of a giveaway. One mistake and they will know you aren’t one of them.”_

Pushing the thought aside, Clarke tries to focus. Lexa and Titus argue back and forth and despite her clear attempts to use English he continues to exclude Clarke with Trigedasleng. Eventually, Lexa too slips into the rough language and after a particularly insulting remark that Clarke must let slide, the Commander has had enough. 

_“Shof yu op.”_ Lexa commands and despite his clearly strong feelings on the subject, Titus does as told. Lexa turns her attention away from the disgruntled man and looks to Indra. “Take Clarke to the guest wing. It has been a long day.” (Silence.)

Indra straightens and gives her Commander a short formal bow before gesturing for Clarke to lead the way back into the hall. Irritated with her dismissal, Clarke would object if the thought of sleeping wasn’t so appealing. Allowing herself to be corralled, she doesn’t miss the heated glances Titus continues sending her direction. 

She is certain the moment the doors close behind them he will erupt once more. They make their way down the hall and Clarke tries to listen in, but she can’t make out anything clear. Eventually, the elevator arrives and Indra follows Clarke into the death box. The room begins to shudder and awkward silence fills the air around them. Clarke finds herself itching to break it. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says and the warrior cocks her head to the side, a cautious curiosity about her. 

“For what?” 

“Before I left Lincoln told me what you did for him.” Indra straightens, her eyes fixating on the doors ahead of her. Clarke waits for any form of response for so long she stops expecting one. It makes sense. What Indra did was a direct violation of Lexa’s agreement that all of her people would retreat. Clarke would be more surprised if she openly admitted her treason. 

“Are they well?” The question catches Clarke so off guard she hesitates before answering. 

“They were the last time I saw them.” She answers truthfully not needing to ask which ‘they’ she is referring to. The elevator lurches to a stop and Indra nods subtly before leaving the room first. 

The hall Clarke steps into is small and lined with lit torches. Scanning the area, Clarke counts two doors to her left and two to her right. The warrior of a woman turns on her heel stopping beside the last door on the right. 

“These will be your quarters for the duration of your stay in Polis.” The short woman eyes Clarke down, then back up, “I will send someone to ready a bath for you.” 

Rolling her eyes, Clarke pushes open the double doors to her new room. The first thing she finds her eyes drawn to is the wall-to-wall open window to her left and before she can glance at the rest of the room her feet are on the move. Hobbling to the edge, Clarke’s eyes devour the sight before her. 

Miles of forest stretch out so far into the distance she can almost see the curvature of the earth. In the distance through the trees, she sees the border of Polis lined with evenly spread out campfires. If she focuses, she can almost see their trails of smoke flitting away in the wind. 

Taking in the clear night sky, Clarke can’t believe how different everything looks from this high up. Leaning carefully over the stone waist high wall, she looks at the unending fall and her stomach drops. Suddenly her palms are sweaty again. Stepping back Clarke moves to the center of the room and tries to convince herself that the subtle feeling of the floor swaying is only in her head. 

Distracting herself with examining the rest of her room she is surprised at the enormous size of the bed. On the Ark the beds were three inches of plastic mattress over a metal frame. However, the sight before her is almost grotesque by comparison. Upon closer inspection Clarke finds the mattress full, soft, and lump free. Its expanse is covered in various furs and pillows. If this is Clarke’s bed, she can only imagine what the Commander of the twelve clans’ bed looks like. 

There is a soft knock on the door and Clarke makes her way back to the entrance. Pulling open the heavy doors once more she is met by an older woman with long black hair pulled into various braids. Clarke recognizes the familiar Trikru style that, thanks to Nova, she has developed a keen eye for. Behind her is a cart stocked with buckets full of water and various vials. 

_“Ai ste?”_ She asks, and Clarke happily moves out of her way. The woman busies herself in the bathroom opposite her bed. Continuing to explore, Clarke finds the entrance to an enormous closet near the window. Clarke is taking in the assortment of clothes when she catches her reflection staring back at her. (May I?)

Even in the worn mirror, Clarke is surprised by her appearance. Her once clean bright blonde hair is nearly unrecognizable. Dirt and dried blood cover the golden locks beneath, bags hang under her eyes, and her new clothes contradict her near animalistic appearance. The thin half assed sling does little to help her case. 

Pulling herself closer, Clarke traces her fingers over the cut on her forehead, surprised by how prominent it is. She spends another moment also examining the cut on her throat, but after that Clarke can hardly stand a second more of her appalling reflection. Instead, she picks out clothes for tonight and waits for the woman to finish her work in a chair by the window. Once the woman is finished, she leaves without a word and Clarke finds her way to the bathroom. 

The instant she enters the room her nose fills with the soft aroma of lavender. A deep tub is centered in the small room and Clarke’s stomach flips with excitement when she sees steam rising from the water. Placing the pile of clothes on the counter, Clarke strips. Struggling with the sling in particular without aid, Clarke tosses her clothes without a care for where they land. With bloody bandages still wrapped around her thigh, she lowers herself into the water. 

Each inch she sinks into the water relaxes her more and more. Taking care to allow her thigh extra time to adjust to the hot temperature, Clarke fully submerges herself, soaking her hair. Breaking the surface, she allows the warm water to wash over her face and tries to convince herself that she will feel clean again soon. 

She focuses on the soaked wrappings around her thigh. She’s certain the water has lavender oil and she is willing to bet that isn’t the only healing ingredient within it. Careful to go slow, she peels the soaked bandages free and tosses them from the tub with a wet plop. 

Fully bare, Clarke leans back against the metal wall and closes her eyes. She sits there in silence for so long she nearly falls asleep, but eventually pulls herself together. After scraping her body and scalp raw she remains in the tub. Soaking up the warmth she finds momentary peace in the silence. Eventually, the water grows cold and she pulls herself from the tub and dries off. 

Once dressed in the biggest shirt she could find and a fresh pair of underwear, she stumbles sleepily back into the main room. Walking from candle to candle she blows each one out, filling the room with darkness. Clarke makes her way to her bed and collapses onto it in a heap. Rolling onto her side, she pulls the furs tight around her shivering body. Clarke stares out the window at the stars and tries to remember any of the constellations.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! I certainly did writing it.

This is a dream. 

This is a dream. 

Wake up! 

Bolting upright Clarke gasps for air, her breath heaving in and out of her lungs yet offering no relief. Ghosts ring in her ears and a sheen of sweat coats her skin despite the winter chill in the air. Wiping her brow, Clarke fights to keep tears from falling. 

_“What did you do?”_

Dropping her head into her hands, her sorrow envelops her. It was a dream, but it wasn’t. The memory of Jaspers face as he held the burned mangled corpse of the girl he loved is seared into Clarke’s mind. Maya didn’t deserve that death. None of them did. She hopes one day the memory will fade, that the nightmares will stop, but deep down she knows they never will. 

None of them will. 

Throwing the furs from her body, Clarke rises. The moment her feet touch the frigid stone floor, a chill engulfs her damp skin. She focuses on the feeling, revels in the dull ache that spreads from her toes to her ankles. In the silence, she allows the pain to ground her. 

_“What did you do?”_

Clarke was in shock when Jasper asked that simple question. She could barely look at him. She lifts the candle from her bedside table and lights the wick. Encased in its small glow, Clarke brings it with her to the closet. 

Pulling on socks, Clarke rubs her numb frozen feet until feeling returns. She dons a thick long sleeve blue shirt and picks out warm pants. She then struggles to pull on her boots, her numb fingers slowing her as she works to tie the laces. Clarke cups her hands over her mouth. Breathing into them, she soaks up the warmth spread into her fingers and lips. 

Clarke thought it was cold when they first landed on the dropship but it has only gotten colder. Clarke finds a beaten leather jacket at the back of the closet that catches her eye. The garment is covered in visible scrapes and tears that have been mended by careful hands. She feels the coarse material, a contrast to the clothes on the Ark, and smiles. 

She pulls on the jacket along with a pair of gloves and opts to leave her hair down for warmth. Clarke grabs her candle, and makes her way to the open window. On the horizon she can see the soft blue tint of morning on its way. Clarke watches the houses below and wonders what time Polis wakes. After a final glance at the city below, she decides to find out. 

Clarke trudges into the hall, candle in hand. Approaching the elevator, she waits patiently. Burying her free hand in her jacket pocket, Clarke stands close to the torch on the wall for any trace of warmth. Once the dingy elevator arrives, she spends the duration of the lengthy ride staring into space. She tries not to remember the smell of burning flesh sizzling off bones. 

_“What did you do?”_

Clarke starts as the doors creak open. She pulls herself back to reality with some effort and enters the ground floor. Yesterday there were many grounders throughout the open space, but Clarke now finds a barren dark cold room. There’s more of the room to see now that she’s alone. The space is filled with various chairs and desks. It reminds her of the common area on the Ark. 

The room has only half as many candles lit as it did when Clarke walked through it last. She moves to the nearest fixture and adds her candle to it. She pulls on the hood of her jacket, careful to tuck away as much of her hair as possible. She then approaches the same doors she entered through mere hours ago with Lexa. 

An ember of anger flickers to life in her chest at the mere thought of the Commander. Clarke shakes all traces of deep green eyes from her mind. Grabbing ahold of the side of her hood, she pulls open the threshold. She holds the material in place as she is engulfed by a gush of freezing wind. The door is nearly ripped from her hands as the wind rushes into the breach. Chilled to the bone in seconds Clarke struggles to close the door behind her. 

Once the hardwood clicks into place, Clarke sighs and buries her hands in her pockets. She turns to leave and finds the six guards from earlier staring at her with wary eyes. Clarke ducks her head, rushing past them through the wind. A part of her expects one of them to grab her, or call after her, tell her to stop, but they don’t. 

She picks up the pace to put as much distance between her and the tower as possible before they can change their minds. Clarke’s teeth chatter as she weaves through the streets, paying little attention to where she is going until she’s far enough that the tower becomes just another building in the Polis skyline. Clarke moves through the city shadows in silence. 

She doesn’t know how long she walks through the deserted sleeping streets of Polis, but eventually the thin line of blue on the horizon stretches across the sky. Clarke begins to see a few grounders making their way lazily from their homes into the streets. Maintaining distance, she keeps her face covered and her head down. 

More and more grounders fill the streets and they share a general consensus on which direction to travel. After double checking that they aren’t headed back toward the tower, Clarke follows. The homes lining the streets become smaller and closer together. Clarke hears chatter and the cacophony of footsteps culminating nearby until the roads give way to a town square of sorts. 

The open space is lined with various merchant stalls and shops. In the center of the square is a metal sculpture. Upon further inspection she recognizes the circular pattern as the symbol Lexa wears on her forehead. Clarke remembers the towering presence Lexa possessed as she glared down at her from her throne the first time she laid eyes on that symbol. 

She swallows the sour taste in her mouth and continues looking around the market. Here and there merchants begin preparations for opening their stalls. Clarke strolls the perimeter, avoiding the more crowded shops as she scans their contents with fervent eyes. Grounders go about their business as usual, but Clarke is still careful to ensure she goes unnoticed. 

Searching for the most out of the way shop, Clarke enters unable to hide her fascination. She finds it filled with all things leather, from jackets to bags to arrow quivers. The woman behind the counter watches Clarke with a gentle smile across her lips. 

_“Monin.”_ She greets Clarke as she enters, who gives a quick nod of acknowledgment. Clarke is immediately stuck by the prominent tattoo streaking across the woman’s face. (Welcome) 

_“Sonop,”_ Clarke returns, taking the chance to lower her hood. The woman watches Clarke as she walks to a table covered in various dagger sheaths. She picks up the nearest one and examines the clean precise stitching. _“Meisen.”_ (Morning. Beautiful) 

_“Machof,”_ She responds making her way over, _“Yu gada som in kof op?”_ (Thank you. You have something to trade?) 

_“Nou,”_ Clarke answers placing the sheath back onto the table. The woman smiles at her despite her answer and Clarke examines the long tattoo that curls over her eyebrow. The mark streaks down her cheek, over her chin and disappears beneath the collar of her shirt. (No) 

Clarke has always loved the way the grounder’s tattoos look. She still remembers the first time she saw Lincoln’s tattoos on the dropship. She then remembers why she saw them and pushes the thought away. Clarke continues to look around the shop until her eyes fall on a leather-bound journal that makes her jaw drop. 

Crossing to the shelf on the far wall, she snatches the large book and rifles through its pages. The cover is dark, clean leather that is completely untarnished, a rare sight when it comes to grounders. The parchment within is thick and empty, and Clarke sighs. This would be the perfect art journal. 

Disappointed that she has nothing to offer for the rare find, Clarke begins putting it back when the woman grabs her wrist. Clarke had not heard her follow and stiffens as the woman pushes the journal into her arms. 

_“Teik em in.”_ She says, pressing the journal into Clarke’s chest forcing her to grab it. (Take it) 

_“Nou, ai c-,”_ Clarke shakes her head, but the woman waves her off and walks away. Clarke stares dumbfounded as she walks back to the counter and begins searching behind it for something. Clarke reexamines the journal in her hands, a small flicker of happiness threatening to break through despite her best efforts. (No, I c-) 

Bent over, the woman lets out a triumphant aha and rises from under the counter with a small piece of parchment. She extends it to Clarke who cautiously makes her way over. Taking it, she finds the hand drawn portrait of a handsome young man looking back at her. A halfcocked smile decorates his lips and a tattoo nearly identical to the woman before Clarke stretches down the opposite side of his face. 

Looking back to the woman, Clarke shakes her head in confusion. 

_“Maun-de don jak ething op kom ai,”_ She begins and Clarke’s stomach drops so violently she nearly doubles over, _“Ai houmon, ai nomfa.”_ Frozen in place and sick in her bones, Clarke stares down at the boy's face. He has her nose and eyes. (The mountain took everything from me. My husband, my son.) 

The woman then grabs a pencil from the counter and extends it to Clarke. She accepts it with visibly shaky hands, _“Ai ouyon yu klin kom mou kom dison Wanheda.”_ (I owe you more than this Wanheda.) 

Clarke’s face is completely blanched and she knows it. The woman is staring at her and Clarke’s nausea grows. Taking a tentative step back she shakes her head and the woman’s brow knits, confused. A commotion of shouting and shuffling feet presses in from the market outside and Clarke uses the distraction to gather herself. Summoning all of her strength, she swallows the brick in her throat and puts on a smile. 

“Thank you.” 

She manages it with a strangled voice. Clarke fumbles to return the drawing, but drops it. Frazzled, she doesn’t move to pick it up. She instead turns on heel and practically sprints from the establishment. Without looking back, she pushes into the cold breeze and crosses to the far side of the square. There is an enormous crowd gathered near the statue in the center of the square, but Clarke can’t investigate. Her heart pounds so hard in her chest she can hear it over the wind in her ears. 

Placing a palm over her chest, Clarke limps as quickly as she can to the nearest alley. She braces herself against the wall as war rages brutally in her mind, her sanity caught in the crossfire. The mountain committed atrocity after atrocity and she knows that, that woman is proof of that, but there were innocents. The journal in her arms feels heavier than it once did and Clarke momentarily thinks about throwing it. 

She paid for it with the blood of children. 

Instead, she places the journal gently on the ground and turns away. She stumbles further down the ally, yelping when a particularly hard step pulls on her stitches. Swallowing her voice, Clarke allows every inch farther from the cursed object to ease the burning pain inside her chest. 

Tears fall freely over her cheeks as she quickly grows exhausted from the effort. A dull painful ache settles within Clarke’s thigh which she grips as she limps to a feeble stop. Thinking she will only rest for a moment, Clarke once more leans against the alley wall. Dropping her head into her hands she slides her back down the hard brick, gasping as the movement causes even more pain in her leg. 

Pressing her eyes shut, Clarke remembers the rotting stench in the harvesting room in Mount Weather. She can still feel the weight of Anya’s piercing gaze staring at her through the bars of her cage. Despite everything that had happened between them, seeing her like that shook Clarke to her core. She knew in that instant she could not spend another second in that mountain. 

The hell they endured escaping sometimes returns to Clarke in her nightmares. After she woke up in the medical bay of Camp Jaha, Clarke walked to where they had both been shot. No one had bothered to move the body, let alone burn it. 

She can still feel the weight of the blade in her hand as she cut Anya’s braid. 

“Clarke?” 

Jumping nearly a foot off the ground, Clarke frantically turns her back to Lexa who stands a mere five feet away. Cursing herself for not hearing her approach she puts a face to the cause of the commotion in the square. Wiping the tears from her face Clarke catches her breath. She refuses to let Lexa see her this way. She rises, struggling for a moment with her injury, and limps pathetically further away from Lexa. 

“Clarke, wait,” The Commander calls after her close on her heels, “What are you doing? What is this?” Clarke hobbles to a stop and turns. Lexa is holding up the journal. 

Cursing herself, she counters with a question of her own, “What are _you_ doing here? I would have thought miss perfect would stay in her ivory tower.” She spits ignoring the petty jab she isn’t sure will land. 

From the look on Lexa’s face, Clarke isn’t fooling anyone. Giving in she faces the Commander and gestures in the direction of the woman’s shop. “Her son,” She begins, her voice already shaky. “He was taken by the mountain so she was thanking me. I committed _genocide_ , and she thanked me.” 

An agonizing forced smile spreads across Clarke’s lips as she hides her need to sob behind a fake laugh. Lexa says nothing, her face set and unreadable while Clarke struggles to control her own. The Commander’s eyes bore into Clarke and once more she is an open book. However, for the first time since she reunited with her, so is Lexa. For a moment, a single moment, Clarke sees true emotion in her eyes. 

Understanding. 

“I know what you are feeling. The guilt, but the mountain had its chance at survival. Just like the rest of us.” The Commander says, sending a chill into Clarke’s chest and rage into her stomach. Months of conditioned hatred cause Clarke to snap. 

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what I feel.” She snarls, leaning into her anger, allowing it to chase away her pain and confusion. “You don’t even get to _speak_ to me about what happened.” 

Lexa’s eyes fall to the ground, an act that drastically opposes her usual warriors' demeanor. “All of this is _your_ fault.” Clarke continues closing in on the Commander, who takes a cautious step back. “ _You_ are the reason for every bad thing that has happened to me from the second I got to the ground.” 

Lexa raises her gaze once more so it is level with Clarke’s. Her shoulders roll back the way they always do when someone challenges her. Stepping into her personal space, Clarke seethes at the spark of fire behind Lexa’s eyes. 

“You sent Trikru to attack the drop ship. You called for Finn’s death. It was your plan to let the bomb fall on Ton DC. And then after everything I did for you, you _left_ me.” Clarke’s lip trembles and she hates herself for it. All emotion has once again been chased from Lexa’s face as she hides safe behind her mask. Clarke wants more than anything to break it. To break her, the way she broke Clarke. “You are a backstabbing coldhearted bitch with no honor. Shove your pity up your ass.” 

Something shifts in Lexa’s eyes and Clarke waits for the weight to be lifted from her chest. After months of ranting and hours of trying she finally let out her frustrations, told Lexa everything she wanted to. But the weight doesn’t lift. The Commanders jaw clenches and unclenches as silence hangs over their heads. Lexa’s hand is pulled into a tight fist and her eyes are cold and distant when she finally speaks. 

“You are to return to the tower.” She orders before thrusting the journal into Clarke’s unprepared hands. “It was foolish of you to leave in the first place. Queen Nia will do whatever it takes to get her hands on you and you wander aimlessly through the streets of Polis without a single guard.” Clarke prickles but Lexa cuts off her argument before it can begin, “You _will_ return to the tower and you will _stay_ there until your people arrive.” 

“What?” Clarke blurts, her guilt disappearing, replaced instead by terror. 

“I sent word to your people when we entered Polis. Delegates from Skaikru will arrive in five days. Your people have been looking for you.” She answers not meeting Clarke’s gaze. She then turns on heel and exits the alley so swiftly Clarke doesn’t even get the chance to see if she looked back. 

Five days. Clarke stares down the empty alley with lead in her bones. Two guards arrive at the opening leading back to the market, and Clarke is pulled from her haze. They wait for her expectantly with arms crossed behind their backs. Sighing, Clarke pulls herself into motion. 

Clarke finds Lexa once more in the center of the square. With guards of her own on either side of her, she is surrounded by people vying for her attention. Some offer her free trinkets, others ask her to test their equipment, and some simply want to place a hand on her, as if testing if she is in fact real. Clarke watches with her lips pressed into a thin line. If Clarke didn’t know any better, she would think their conversation in the alley never happened. 

A gentle polite grin is spread across her lips and Clarke can’t tell how much of it is fake. She can never tell with Lexa. Frustrated, she pushes through the crowd of people, ignoring the shocked looks on many of their faces as she passes. She remembers that her hood is still down, but doesn’t bother to replace it now that she’s already been caught. The guards trail close on her heels as Clarke makes her way out of the market. The echo of hushed whispers follows her the entire way back to the tower.

**Author's Note:**

> (You aren't supposed to know who Nova is yet.)  
> If even one person wants to read more, let me know. I have plenty already mapped out for this story.


End file.
